


après moi, le déluge

by SmartKIN



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (none of the above), Eichen | Echo House, Gen, Off-screen Character Death, Post Season 4, Pre-Slash, werewolf prison break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 00:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmartKIN/pseuds/SmartKIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles breaks Peter out of Eichen House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	après moi, le déluge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> **Dedication:** Very belated birthday gift (I blame Hartwin) for my sweet [Mar](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com), who’s seriously the awesomest and deserves all the good things in their life! Love ya, pup! Also, I’m sorry I couldn’t give this the 20+k it deserved.
> 
>  **Note:** This is only one of many scenarios I have stuck in my head about Stiles bailing Peter out of jail, but I wanted to get at least one of them out before the next season. I haven’t read a single fic about this topic, because I didn’t want my writing to be influenced by them — if there happen to be any similarities to other fics, I’m sorry, it definitely wasn’t intentional. 
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr.](http://lloydoholic.tumblr.com)

“No, but _dude_ , it’s _Peter Hale_ we’re talking about here,” Stiles reminded Scott with a rising voice, waving his arm through the air to underline his point, “he’ll find a way to break out by, like, tomorrow and kill us all in a horribly gruesome way!”

Scott looked up from his homework — finally, thank you Scotty — and regarded him with a partly amused, partly concerned expression.

“And by ‘us’ I mean ‘you’,” Stiles added, not liking one bit how Scott was looking at him.

“He is not going to break out. It’s like werewolf prison, they know what they’re doing.”

“We thought _death_ knew what it was doing, but that didn’t stop Peter from coming back to life.”

Scott sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Deaton made sure–”

“Well, if _Deaton_ made sure,” Stiles couldn’t help but interrupt his friend. He was fast approaching nasty, he knew, but it was hard not to when the topic of discussion was Peter freaking Hale.

“Stiles...”

His best friend suddenly sounded very tired.

“You know I don’t trust him,” he commented, wondering why this still surprised people.

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“With good reason!?” Stiles said with a cracking voice. Then, more conciliating: “I trust you.”

The werewolf looked at him.

“Do you?”

Stiles’ eyes widened in shock. What was that supposed to–

His mouth was suddenly dry and he had no idea what to say. Scott had never doubted him before, and all that because of Peter? No. They had arrived here all by themselves and Stiles had no idea how to repair what had been damaged, didn’t know whether it was his fault, or Beacon Hills throwing monsters at them at every turn.

Scott must have seen some of that on his face, because his own expression softened a little.

“Look, why don’t you ask Deaton? He’ll be able to explain it to you. I really don’t want to think about Peter anymore, okay?”

 _Not okay_ , he thought, but didn’t say.

*

Despite the feeling of unease that wouldn’t leave him alone, Stiles didn’t actually go see Deaton until Friday afternoon when he could be sure that Scott wasn’t working. He didn’t want his best friend to be there, to witness his accusations and disrespect towards the man that had become a sort of surrogate father for Scott.

When he let himself in, the reception area was empty, and Stiles wasn’t above admitting that he was a little creeped out. He drummed his fingers restlessly against the counter, aware that Deaton was here somewhere. The doc always knew when somebody entered his clinic, so either he was elbows deep in the bowels of some hapless animal, or he kept Stiles waiting on purpose. Probably the latter.

The vet didn’t seem to like him very much either, but they had a silently-agreed upon cease-fire going on whenever Scott was around, which was almost all the time. Sometimes Stiles had a feeling that Deaton didn’t approve of his dabbling with things he didn’t understand but since the witch doctor wasn’t very forthcoming with anything that could be classified as useful, Stiles didn’t have much choice but carry on while hoping he didn’t accidentally start the apocalypse Winchester-style.

Finally, Deaton appeared in the doorway behind the counter, wiping his hands with a paper towel. He didn’t appear to be surprised to see him, but then the guy never really was surprised by _anything_.

“Stiles,” he greeted in his default patronizing way, a slight smile playing around his lips. “What can I do for you?”

Man, this dude really knew how to rub him the wrong way. How was it possible that Stiles was the only one who didn’t trust him?

“Doc, _hi_ , yes,” he replied impatiently, stumbling a little over the greeting part, because he had forgotten that it was something he would have to do. Exchange niceties with Deaton, check. “You can tell me how your little werewolf jail will prevent Peter from breaking out, that would really help me out, you know, let me sleep at night.”

Deaton sighed, and Stiles hated how that made him feel like an inconvenience, there had been too much of that going around in the past year. In the end the doc simply stepped forward and opened the mountain ash counter for him to step through.

*

The explanation Deaton gave him was brief and entirely unsatisfactory. The key security measures boiled down to the construction of the cells, which were built specifically with certain creatures in mind — iron in the walls, mountain-ash frames, the works. Deaton also seemed to be relying on the drugs they kept at close hand, assuring Stiles that Peter was kept sedated at all times. The werewolf was, according to the vet, simply too weak to stage a breakout.

But the truly horrifying thing wasn’t the interior design or the drugs, not even the fact that the creeper wolf was kept at Eichen House of all places — and that was saying a lot because Stiles _still_ had nightmares of that place — no, the worst part was Peter’s cellmate.

“What do you mean,” Stiles asked after Deaton’s confession that Dr. Valack had the uncanny ability of driving people insane, as well as catatonic.

When he gulped in some air, Stiles had to swallow around a sudden wave of nausea. He didn’t like the flutter of anxiety in his chest, not today, not because of Peter.

The doc finally spoke after a lengthy pause.

“Dr. Valack shows you the horrors of your existence.”

There was a pained expression marring the man’s features that suggested intimate experience with the matter, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the implications of the statement hit him like a freight train.

He grabbed the edge of the steel table in support, barely noticing his knuckles turn white.

“So, what you’re saying is that you locked Peter in a cell with this nut job,” he chocked out, teeth clenched and throat constricted. “Peter, who spent years in a coma, slowly going insane with the pain of being burnt alive, of losing his pack — you _wittingly_ put him in a cell with Valack — who will show him all of this, again, show him all he’s lost, what he’s done, all of what drove him insane _in the first place?_ ”

His voice was cracking at the end, but he didn’t care, all he could think of was the agony of being consumed by the loss of his mom, of the horror’s they had to face since the night werewolves entered their lives, of what Stiles had had to do to keep his friends safe, his dad--

Lightheaded and breathless, he suddenly thought that Scott was in on this too, wondered if he knew what Valik did to Peter, right this very second, wondered if his best friend had been okay with it as long as he didn’t have to kill the werwolf who made him.

He barked out a bitter laugh; oh Scotty, thinking death was the worst thing that could ever happen to somebody, the worst thing you could possibly do to a person.

And Peter, who had back-stabbed them again, _which Stiles had known would happen_ , Peter who deserved probably every form of torture except this one, who was rotting away in Eichen House, who had probably been driven out of his mind already--

Stiles almost choked on the horror lodged deep in his throat.

He needed to get out of here.

“Rest assured that Peter will not be breaking out,” the vet said, but it barely penetrated the haze that surrounded him, the sudden knowledge that the good guys had finally become the bad guys.

He turned away and stumbled out of there as quickly as possible, ignoring the sharp call of his name, just needed to _get out of there_ , needed to breathe fresh air, and put some distance between him and the man who dished out the worst kind of punishment like it meant absolutely nothing.

*

It was already way past midnight and Stiles was lying wide awake in his bed with the covers kicked off, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. He had given up on proper sleep a while ago, he was too wired to relax, not even the herbal tea Kira had lent him did anything to calm him down.

The only thing on his mind right now was Peter fucking Hale; his visit to Deaton had opened the floodgates in his mind and he was drowning in memories and conflicting feelings.

_You’re the clever one, aren’t you?_

If he thought about it long enough, he could still feel the man’s index finger pressed against the underside of his chin, making him rise to his feet with the warning of a single claw pricking his skin.

There had always been something raw and primal thrumming in the empty space between them whenever they met—a fundamental understanding hidden behind a thin veneer of promised threats and cocky sarcasm.

_I like you, Stiles._

Essentially, Peter was made of the same cloth as Stiles—they would do anything to get what they wanted, protect the few people they cared about, without the hindrance of moral scruples slowing them down. Words and knowledge were dangerous weapons in their arsenal, twisting their way just as easily between the ribs of their prey as a knife was able to.

_Do you want the bite?_

He shivered when he imagined the phantom touch of lips brushing against the inside of his wrist, so intimate, so deadly.

Yes, he thought, his chest aching, yes please.

*

When the first gray light was barely filtering in through the window, he resurfaced from a light sleep with the knowledge that there wasn’t a single person in Beacon Hills who’d agree to help him. That... was a sobering thought, one that left a bad taste on his tongue.

A wave of loneliness swept over him—after all they had been through, after all the blood and death that had seeped into every crack of this godforsaken town, not even his closest friends would trust him enough to believe that he was doing the right thing here.

He didn’t know what else he had to give, he was hollow, a mere husk of a boy, had carved out every ounce of his self for them—but he couldn’t give them this.

Scott had already begun to doubt him, and he wondered if their friendship could survive even this betrayal. Because that was what his friends would call it. Betrayal.

With trembling hands he grabbed his phone and dialed the one person who might be willing to help him out.

“ _What,_ ” Derek barked when he picked up after the second ring. “Do you know what _time_ it is?”

“Dude, I need your help.”

His voice sounded awful even to his own ears, and there was a slight hesitation to Derek’s answer.

“No, I’m not coming back to Beacon Hills. Figure it out yourself.”

Stiles continued as if Derek hadn’t spoken.

“I’m going to break your uncle out of prison. I could really do with your impressive B&E skills.”

There was a pause.

“ _What!?_ ”

“Yeah, just call me when you’re here.”

“Stiles--”

But Stiles hung up. He didn’t have the energy to argue. When his phone vibrated with an incoming call only seconds later, and once more five minutes after that, he simply stared out of the window as he let the calls go to voice mail.

*

They met under the cover of night, Stiles haphazardly parking his Jeep at the curb behind Derek’s SUV. The wolf wasn’t happy, but he had come, that was all that mattered in the end. Stiles couldn’t say how much that meant to him in that moment, that _somebody_ came when he called, when he needed help.

“Stiles,” Derek acknowledged when Stiles stumbled gracelessly out of his car. “You look like shit.”

“Not sleeping does that to a person.”

Stiles leaned back into his Jeep and got out his lock-picking tools, before straightening up, squaring his shoulders and turning to meet Derek’s inscrutable gaze.

“Thanks, dude, I couldn’t do this on my own. I think.”

For a second, the man’s expression looked haunted.

“Are you sure you want to break him out,” he asked, as if he hadn’t driven all this way for exactly that purpose.

“We’re talking about werewolf Guantanamo here, trust me, you don’t want a member of your family in there, not even somebody as psycho as Peter.”

Derek simply nodded and suddenly they were all business.

“I looked at the plans of the building, there’s another way into the the basement located at the back. They probably didn’t want to drag dangerous creatures of the night through the reception area all the time. Looks a tad suspicious. We can totally break in there, it will have little security, since the actual prison only starts deeper inside, it’s soundproof and most likely fortified, so your werewolf strength will be very much appreciated.”

Stiles mulled it over in his head, wondering if he’d forgotten anything.

“What about security cameras?”

Stiles blinked at him in surprise.

“Who went and made you the voice of reason? You’re supposed to be the one with terrible, half-assed plans, don’t get creative on me now, buddy.”

Derek rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently. Stiles would never say so out loud, but he had really missed the guy.

“Stiles. Cameras?”

“Eh, not at the back. At least, not once we’re inside. Probably.”

Derek had skepticism written all over him, but followed him around the back anyway when Stiles started walking.

“You’ll just have to pick them up with your handy night vision should there be any after all,” Stiles offered a second later, and squawked in indignation when Derek dragged him along by the scruff of his neck.

*

Stage one of their plan worked beautifully — if by beautiful you meant Derek lifting Stiles over the wall surrounding the property and Stiles landing with flailing limbs on the ground on the other side in an undignified heap. Thankfully he didn’t break anything. Derek’s eyebrows were totally judging him, though, he could tell.

They kept to the shadows as they crept across the lawn. For a moment, Stiles felt like a ninja. Or Batman, finally.

There was most definitely a camera trained at the backdoor, but Derek — ever the expert — found a window on the ground floor that was partly open, so they simply circumvented being caught on camera by using this makeshift entrance instead. They found themselves in a stuffy little room filled with dusty medical files and old furniture, nothing that seemed to be used on a daily basis, and Stiles stopped wondering why there were no bars on the window. This wasn’t a part of the building that people normally had access too, so much was clear.

“I’m still impressed that our neighbors never saw you climb through my bedroom window. Man, good times,” he whispered to Derek as they approached the door and for a brief dizzying moment nostalgia hit him hard.

The door was locked, but Derek quickly and efficiently took care of that.

“Dude, I brought my lock-picking tools...”

“Yeah? How long would we have to be in this room until you managed to unlock this door?”

“Wow, rude!”

Without losing any more time, the wolf grabbed his arm and pivoted him out of the room, letting go of him only to push his back until he moved quickly enough for the guy’s liking. What a brute.

This cloak-and-dagger mission would have been kinda fun if Stiles weren’t so keyed up from the energy drinks he’d been guzzling and the general fuzziness that came from not sleeping enough, but also, well, the fact the he was going to see Peter soon. He didn’t entirely understand the nervous flutter in his stomach that somehow overshadowed even the acrid anxiety cursing through his veins. But now was not the time to figure it out, either.

Derek kept him moving, but it was Stiles who lead them expertly through the maze of dark and camera-free corridors. He had made very sure to memorize the layout and thanked every deity he could think of that he had a great sense of direction.

They didn’t encounter anybody on the way in and when they reached a heavy steel door behind which the prison lay, Stiles was very glad that Derek had accompanied him. Heart in his mouth, Stiles watched as his surly partner in crime made short work of the lock. When the wolf wanted to charge forward, Stiles pointedly cleared his throat.

“Wait here,” he whispered and slipped past Derek, but a hand on his shoulder held him back.

“I’m not letting you go in there by yourself.”

“Dude, it’s a _werewolf_ prison, if they catch you they might just keep you here.”

Derek frowned at him.

“Mountain ash everywhere, remember? What if we get trapped? What if you get tranquilized with wolfsbane or something?”

But instead of relenting, Derek reached behind his back and got a gun out of his belt. Drawing it up to his chest, he released the safety and held the gun a lose grip with both of his hands, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge.

“Well, that’s hot,” Stiles commented with a dry mouth. Derek grimaced but didn’t say anything.

“I guess you can come.”

*

The white floors and walls and the dim light freaked him out a whole lot, and he had a brief flashback of being dragged into a cell, of strong arms holding him down as a needle pierced his skin. Derek looked at him from the side, probably because of his jackrabbiting heartbeat, but Stiles ignored him. This was not the time. They each peered through the tiny windows on every door, trying to find Peter.

“There are probably security cameras in the rooms,” he murmured and Derek nodded. They would have to be quick about it.

Finally, when Stiles glanced through door number eight, he got lucky.

“Derek,” he said urgently and the wolf was instantly by his side, gun at the ready, peering over his shoulder and through the small window.

“Get it open.”

Fumbling a little, Stiles quickly got out his tools and started picking the lock, getting it open quickly because despite popular belief he actually knew what he was doing when he was breaking the law, thank you very much. He even knew how to get out of handcuffs, but that was neither here nor there.

He pushed open the door, but didn’t walk in right away. At his side, Derek was a solid wall of heat that anchored him, lending him the strength he needed. Drawing himself up to his full height, Stiles ventured into the room.

The sight that greeted them was not something Stiles had anticipated. Not even once. Despite the depressing tile-work and occasionally flickering neon light, the room looked big, and yet the cell was nestled only into the back, separated by a thick wall of glass and protected by a solid mountain-ash frame.

Stiles was only dimly aware of his surroundings; he was entirely entranced by the man that was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of his cell, eyes closed, a serene expression on his face and a body stretched out before him, bloody and from the looks of it, very much dead.

“ _Peter,_ ” he whispered and his control over his body simply vanished.

The man’s eyes fluttered open and met his gaze head-on, lips morphing into a sinful smirk.

“Stiles,” Peter greeted, his voice a familiar rumbling sound that sent a frisson of excitement through his body. “If I had known you would visit, I would have tidied up a bit.”

Unable to form a proper thought in his head, Stiles stumbled closer until he was almost touching the thick pane of glass.

“How--?”

At closer inspection, Dr. Valack was most definitely dead.

“They thought he would drive me insane by showing me the unspeakable horrors of my soul,” the wolf explained, his expression of light amusement in stark contrast with the cold fire in his eyes. “As if they can break _me_ ; I have already lived through hell.”

Stiles was unable to look away — this was a version of Peter he had never seen before. The intensity made his head spin.

“You ready to get out of here,” he asked breathlessly, the sheer _recklessness_ of this werewolf jailbreak overpowering any other coherent thought.

“Why, yes, I think I am,” Peter replied, his smile turning sharp and dangerous. “How polite of you to ask.”

Without the pin code to open the electronic door of the cell there was only one way they could get him out.

“Step back,” Derek told them both and raised his gun.

 _And after us,_ Stiles thought we a giddiness he couldn’t quite explain, _the deluge_.

 


End file.
